


Hebrews 1:14

by jumpstarts



Category: DBSK | Tohoshinki | TVfXQ | TVXQ
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Biblical Allusions (Abrahamic Religions), M/M, Or Rather Just Allusions To It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:53:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23261263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumpstarts/pseuds/jumpstarts
Summary: Changmin finds an angel sunbathing on the rooftop one day.
Relationships: Jung Yunho/Shim Changmin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 53





	Hebrews 1:14

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saddermachine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saddermachine/gifts).



> for lisa, who understands.

.

Changmin finds an angel sunbathing on the rooftop one day and nearly drops the basket of laundry in his hands in surprise. It says its name is something ancient and forgotten, and it'd found its way there following the northerly wind. Changmin doesn't get any of that and frowns, before he remembers that he's there for a purpose. It watches as Changmin hangs his washing on the clothesline, wings tucked neatly against pale shoulder blades, and asks to help. Changmin finds, much too late, that angels can make a mess out of simple chores and they chase bleached sheets across the rooftops before the wind carries them too far. Their scramble makes the angel laugh and the sky lightens, as does Changmin's heart. For a while, he forgets about his mother's coughing fits and the bloody rags he's had to scrub clean, and the unforgiving, pinched lines on his father's face as he reads the newspaper.

He forgets about turning sixteen and enlisting together with the older boys.

"I've never talked to a man before," the angel says, swinging its legs over the ledge. It has human-shape and Changmin doesn't ask why. He's not brave enough to sit next to the angel, so he drags the old sofa that has been there since he's seven closer to the languid spread of its great, ivory-white wings. He's careful to keep his feet inches away from them. The angel glances over its bare shoulder at Changmin and smiles. "I'm not supposed to, so will you keep this a secret?"

Changmin twists his fingers in his lap and promises. 

Changmin doesn't see the angel often, but when it does come, they stay on the rooftop until it gets too dark to see. They talk. They laugh. And one time, it tells Changmin about a garden and a snake and how love is both kind and cruel, but it is still love all the same. Changmin thinks he understands, because it hurts when he looks at the angel and his gut churns with selfish things. Sinful things. He shoves them down, along with his multitude of other fears. He's always been good at keeping secrets. Changmin teaches it songs his mother used to sing before her treacherous lungs give out on her and the angel flits around him when they dance barefoot over dirty, cracked tiles. Sometimes it rains and Changmin sits under the angel's wings, and they watch the world being washed anew. Clean and pretty, and Changmin gets to pretend he hadn't waved goodbye to a busful of childhood friends in dark, green uniforms.

From the corner of his eye, he watches the angel smile and his chest aches with the knowledge of his own secret desires. 

It's February and a city on the other side of the world is firebombed overnight. Thousands of people die.

“They deserve it,” his father says, still with that same pinched look on his face.

There's no pleasure in his voice and Changmin dreams about fathers and mothers and children trapped inside burning houses. None of them has even touched a weapon. And yet there they are, in his dream, twisting screaming wretched figures consumed by flames and buried under debris. He goes up to the rooftop with a blanket and curls into the sofa, eyes squeezed shut but too afraid to fall asleep. He's convinced they're waiting for him, with their hollowed-out eyes and soot-black hands. He stays there until their small town rouses around him, in the sound of windows opening and the threadbare voice of the old lady on the third floor reading out bible verses in a private sermon.

 _Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil_ —

Changmin opens his eyes when he doesn't feel the sun on his face and sees wings spread out above him. All six of them, loosely-woven together. The angel looks down at Changmin with its beautiful face and its dark eyes and its unsmiling, red mouth. 

"You are anguished." Its brows furrow. "Why are you anguished?"

The blanket slips from his fingers. Changmin's lips quiver for a split second, a sob sticking inside his throat, before he bites at them. Crunches them between his teeth and swallows them whole. Courage is the only thing he has left. "I’m going to war and I might not return."

The angel's eyes flicker in understanding. A ripple goes through the wings and shards of sunlight spear through the feathery gaps, warming Changmin's skin. "When will you leave?"

"Today." Changmin clenches his fingers. Unclenches them. The ache inside him is a festering wound and he's yet to set his foot inside the battlefield. He doesn't know which is more painful — to die from this, or from a bullet. He uncoils from his perch and gets to his feet. The wings scatter and the sky is a clear blue over their heads. "Will you grant me a favour?"

A mournful tilt touches the angel's lips. Changmin wonders if it knows. "Of course."

He's almost as tall as the angel. In a couple years, he would've been taller. In a couple weeks, he might not be alive to regret this. The skin under his hands is warm to the touch, almost too warm. It feels like he's standing too close to a kiln, its heat making sweat prickle at the bottom of his spine. His lips are dry, chapped and he licks at them before he leans in, closing his eyes to the rustling sound of wings around them.

When he opens them, the angel is no longer there. There are blisters on the palms of his hands.

Changmin looks to the sky as it begins to rain.

He goes down to find his parents already in the kitchen, sharing a breakfast of dry bread, thin gruel and stifling silence. He slips into his pressed uniform, the coat too big and too heavy on his bony frame. He kisses his mother goodbye and shakes his father's hand. She cries and he doesn't, and they stand at the doorstep to watch him go down the street, where the rest are already waiting. The rain makes the pavement slippery and they huddle together as the recruitment officer goes through their papers. Changmin recognises two boys who are much too young to be there, and he knows they’re carrying their older brothers’ dog tags hidden inside their pockets. He’d seen them before. He points them out to the officer, but the grim-faced man gives him a hard, unreadable look, and lets the two onto the bus before Changmin. 

He’s staring out of the rain-streaked window when he feels someone taking the seat next to his.

A hand appears at his peripheral and he turns to shake it. Changmin stiffens when he sees a pale face looking back at him, dark-eyed and red-mouthed. The hair is shorter, slicked back neatly. The smile is wide and toothy, and familiar.

“Jung Yunho, nice to meet you.” 

“I’m—” The blisters on his hands throb. Outside, the rain is starting to cease. “—Shim Changmin.”

.


End file.
